


Floating in the Nothingness

by WhovianDream



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Lots of Angst, M/M, Romance, but proceed carefully if you have triggers, faltering relationship, i don't want to give the ending away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:10:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhovianDream/pseuds/WhovianDream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John marries Mary and it affects Sherlock badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floating in the Nothingness

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot of angst in this story, beware if you have triggers (see end notes for warnings).
> 
> Please note: the Mary in this story is NOT the one from BBC Sherlock.

~~~

John was getting married.  
John was leaving him.  
John was-

Sherlock growled quietly and shut off his thought process, pushing the train of thought deep into his mind palace and locking the door firmly.  


No. He was the best man. He had a lot to do, lots to organise. He didn't have time for daydreaming, certainly not when it was about the groom.

  


John entered the room and Sherlock plastered a nonchalant expression onto his face. He must not have got it perfectly right because John gave him a strange look before sinking into his chair.  


“So. Tomorrow,” John began.  


“All sorted,” replied Sherlock quickly. “Don't worry, it's all under control.”  


“I wasn't worrying, I just wondered... Well. I wondered how you were feeling really.” John shrugged. “About the best man speech.”  


“As I said, everything is in order,” Sherlock replied sharply, “I really wish you would stop making me repeat myself. Now, if that is all then I should probably be getting some sleep. So off you pop.”  


John's eyes widened at the suggestion of Sherlock deliberately going to bed at 8pm. He cleared his throat.  


“Erm ok, I best be going anyway. Mary'll be wondering where I've got to.”  


“Quite right too, being out at this time on the night before your wedding.” Sherlock pushed himself out of his seat and strode towards the door. He opened it and gestured to John. “Out.”  


John slowly walked towards the door, frowning at the detective. Sherlock gave him a grin which didn't reach his eyes. John had to suppress a shiver.  


“Right then, see you tomorrow, Sherlock. Good night.” He stepped over the threshold and turned to face Sherlock, smiling up at him.  


“Laterz,” said the detective through his overly happy grin. And he shut the door with a snap.

  


As soon as the door had closed, the smile dropped from Sherlock's face.

 

~~~

 

He sighed and picked up his phone. Giving in. He knew it was weak but he couldn't help it. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the buttons.

**John. I miss you. SH**

The text was short, but he regretted sending it as soon as it had vanished into the ether.  


Anxiously, he waited for John's reply, twirling the syringe in his hand. He flicked the point with one slender finger, watching as a droplet formed at the tip.  


John would be so angry.  


But John didn't care any more. Not now he was married.  


His phone buzzed.  


With his other hand he picked up the phone, deftly unlocking it with a sweep of his thumb.

**Yeah, I er miss you too Sherlock. The cases and that. Look I can't talk now, we've got some of Mary's friends coming round for dinner.**

Sherlock stared at the text, eyes starting to glisten wetly. He'd lost him.  


With one smooth motion, he plunged the needle into his arm.

 

~~~

 

John liked being married.  


Even though nothing had changed in their routine, it somehow felt different. They had a deeper connection perhaps. 

He looked over at his new wife lying asleep beside him. It had only been a month, but already it felt like this was how it had always been. As if he had been looking for this woman his whole life.  


Without warning, an image of Sherlock popped into his mind's eye.  


Ok, maybe not all his life. There had been Sherlock for a while, at least in his head. But that was stupid, and impossible, and...over.  


Sherlock didn't do relationships, he was married to his work. John didn't quite believe that, but he also didn't believe that there was any chance he could have been the one to prove it. Not him, a lowly army doctor. A man like Sherlock needed someone who could match his intellect. 

Like the Woman. Oh how John had been jealous.  


But now he had Mary and he loved her, he truly did. She had completely eclipsed Sherlock. Of course that had been an easier task with Sherlock supposedly being dead....  


John shuddered.  


He had missed Sherlock so much then. He missed him now too, when he let himself admit it. But being married to Mary was such an exciting new adventure, it barely left any time for Sherlock.  


Just like the detective had predicted.  


John sighed. Great, now he was feeling guilty. So much for having a relaxing morning.  


He leaned over and grabbed his phone from the beside table. Glancing over to check his wife was still sleeping, he unlocked the phone and opened his messages.  


He'd been meaning to get back in touch with Sherlock and now seemed as good a time as any to do it. Guiltily, he scrolled back to see when he had last texted Sherlock. A week after the wedding, Sherlock had said he missed him. John groaned as he read his reply. It had been a bit harsh. No wonder Sherlock hadn't texted since.  


He quickly typed a message, before he could put it off again.

**Hey Sherlock, long time no see. How's the detective work going? I was wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner at some point?**

He pressed send and settled back into the covers to wait for Sherlock's reply. It took the detective much longer to reply than usual. Probably had a case on.

**John. Of course. Text details. SH**

Efficient as always. 

A small smile crossed the doctor's face, but there was an edge to it. The text didn't seem quite right, even by Sherlock's standards. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and replaced the phone on the table. He'd have to talk to Mary to sort the details out. Might as well get some more sleep. He turned onto his side and snuggled into his wife, carefully draping an arm over her. She murmured in her sleep but did not wake.  


John closed his eyes.

 

~~~

 

His hands shook as he reached up to take the suit jacket off the hanger. 

His lip trembled as he thought about the evening to come.  


His mind shut it all out and decided he needed something to steady his...whatever feelings these were.  


John would be angry.

 

~~~

  


The doorbell rang. Mary looked up, but gestured for John to get it. She knew what this evening meant to the two men and she wanted to do everything in her power to help them. She knew John loved her, but she suspected that John's feelings for Sherlock weren't entirely platonic. At the very least, it had definitely been more than a friendship in the past.  


John returned to the room, Sherlock close behind. The doctor was nervous, fiddling with his shirt cuff. He barely acknowledged his friend, quickly offering him a drink and then hurrying off to procure it for him.  


Sherlock stood awkwardly in the doorway. There was a feeling of 'not-quite-right' about the scene. Mary studied the detective, trying to pinpoint the strangeness about the man. He was dressed very smartly in a suit and tie, with a deep purple shirt. All very neatly tucked in and ironed, but still....wonky.  


It was as if she was looking at him through a distorted pane of glass, all of the lines were just slightly off. Impossible to notice unless you looked closely. Mary wondered what it meant. She feared the answer.  


“So Sherlock. How's everything been?”  


Sherlock merely grunted, a guttural sound in the back of his throat which sent shivers down her spine for all the wrong reasons. He collapsed into a chair and crossed his ankles on top of the coffee table. Mary decided not to mention it.  


She was desperately trying to think of something else to say when John returned with the drinks. She stifled a sigh of relief. At one time, she would have loved to spend time with Sherlock. They really were very similar and used to get along well. But then she had realised the depth of the connection between the two men and everything had started to go downhill. She couldn't help a small element of pity from creeping into her voice whenever they talked about John. She knew Sherlock had noticed and hated it. They both did.  


And then the wedding had happened and Sherlock had retreated ever further into his carefully crafted shell. He had been fantastic during the actual event, but had disappeared immediately afterwards. No one knew where he had gone, though she and Mycroft had their suspicions. John refused to believe anything. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock was clean and John could see no reason for that to change. Mary desperately hoped he was right.  


The two men had started a faltering conversation about the detective's latest case. Sherlock was answering John's polite enquiries with monosyllabic words or sometimes mere grunts.  


Mary cringed at the tension in the room.  


Gone was the banter, the good-natured jibes.  


Gone was John's praise and Sherlock's sharp retorts.  


Gone was the bond that had weathered crime scenes and danger and death.  


And Sherlock realised it. Mary saw the comprehension dawn in his eyes, followed closely by a shadow of resignation. Then everything was closed off, his face a mask and his eyes empty. Mary looked away; she couldn't bear to see him like that. This was not the detective she had admired as John's friend.  


Suddenly, Sherlock surged to his feet.  


“I...er...have to go.” He swayed slightly on the spot, seeming to collect his thoughts, eyes unfocussed.  


John looked up, startled.  


“But we haven't had dinner yet?”  


“No. Sorry. There's something I have to do. Goodbye John.” There was an air of finality in his voice.  


He took one last look at John, as if trying to commit him to memory. Mary though he probably was, carefully locking him away in his mind palace. The only way he could keep him.  


The detective swept out of the room and down the hall. The pair could hear the door bang as he let himself out. John jumped at the sound and momentarily squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he looked at Mary. There was pain in his expression, but also a little relief.  


“Well that went well,” he quipped, trying to make light of the situation. It fell flat as they both realised what Sherlock's retreat meant. The detective didn't have friends; they had been an exception. But now they weren't. She wondered if they'd ever see him again.  


“John...” Mary started, even though she didn't know how to go on.  


“Don't. I need some time.” He got up as if to leave, but Mary stopped him.  


“No. We need to talk about this.”  


“What is there to talk about?” John snapped. “It's over. The game is over.” He laughed bitterly.  


“He's hurting. You're both hurting. He needs you, John.”  


John scoffed.  


“He's Sherlock Holmes, he can bloody well look after himself.”  


“No he can't John, and you know it. I think...I think he might be using again. I suspected before, but after his behaviour tonight, I'm certain.” Mary was expecting a fight, for John to object and defend his old flatmate. But instead he just sighed.  


“I know.” Mary swallowed her surprise and pushed on.  


“Then what are we going to do?”  


“Nothing. It's not my...it's not our problem.” He paused. “Not any more.”  


John strode into their bedroom and shut the door.

 

~~~

  


That night, John's nightmares returned.  


He woke, struggling against the covers which seemed to be trapping him, strangling him. Sweat glistened on his forehead.  


He leaned over to reach for his wife, but she wasn't there. The bed was cold.  


She'd slept on the sofa then. Trying to give him some space. John was grateful.  


He tried to remember what he had been dreaming about.  


Afghanistan. Always Afghanistan. But this time it was different. This time there was also a building. And building with a lone figure on the roof.  


Sherlock was gone.

 

~~~

  


When John woke again it was morning. He sighed and stretched, rolling his shoulder to banish the ache from his wound.  
He looked over at the clock.  


6:04am. He didn't have to get up just yet.  


He closed his eyes.  


Images of Sherlock invaded his head. He tried to mentally flick them away, but they kept coming back stronger.  


So he let them.  


He let the images of his friend fill his mind until nothing else was left. Nothing else mattered.  


God, he missed him.

 

~~~

 

Sherlock was drifting.  


Everything around him shimmered.  


A light breeze ruffled his hair. He wondered where it was coming from. He decided he didn't care.  


Not caring. That was a good thing.  


He liked not caring.  


It hurt less.  


He sighed and his breath became a gale, blowing around the flat. He could hear it roaring in his ears.  


He closed his eyes, but the room stayed with him, imprinted on his eyelids. Exactly the same, but somehow different.  


John walked into the room. He sat is his chair. He read the paper. Sherlock watched him.  


He opened his eyes. John wasn't there.  


He closed them. John was back.  


He decided he was going to keep his eyes closed forever.  


John looked up at him. He smiled.  


Sherlock stretched, feeling as if he could reach out and touch the whole world if only he tried hard enough. He reached into the kitchen, touched the bowl of fingers on the side, the eyeballs in the fridge. He reached into his bedroom, touched his pillow, his bed.  


He reached towards John. His arm didn't get there. He tried again.  


Clouds fell across the window, casting the room into shadow.  


He stretched. Just a little further. But John was still out of reach.  


So John got up.  


He got up and moved towards him.  


The sun came out.  


The room sparkled.  


John sparkled.  


John smiled.  


John touched his arm.  


John leaned over.  


John...kissed him.  


Sherlock glowed.  


Sherlock kissed him back.  


The room span.  


The floor tilted.  


John was falling away.  


Sherlock reached out, but John slipped through his fingers.  


He wanted John to come back.  


He stretched further, trying desperately to reach him.  


His hand fell instead on the coffee table.  


Instead of John, they found the syringe.  


They grasped the syringe.  


The second syringe.  


Or was it the third?  


The syringe sparkled.  


John had sparkled. John was gone.  


But the syringe was here.  


The syringe was full and John was empty.  


Now the syringe was empty and the room was still.  


But the walls were disappearing.  


And the darkness was approaching.  


And the corners were filling with emptiness and despair.  


And the room was fading.  


He was floating.  


Spinning round and around.  


His eyes spun in their sockets.  


His stomach lurched.  


His mind was full and then clear, all at once.  


The blackness was closing in.  


He was floating.  


The world was empty.  


He was just a shell.  


His body began to shine, brighter and brighter.  


But the light did not pierce the darkness.  


It engulfed his hand.  


It engulfed his arm.  


It engulfed his heart.  


Shining stronger than a supernova.  


Burning.  


Too hot.  


He was breaking apart.  


Tiny motes of light drifting off into the nothingness.  


Until there was nothing left.  


Just his thoughts.  


And the pain.  


And then blackness.

 

~~~

 

John had made a decision.  


It had taken him a week, but he had finally decided. He wasn't going to let Sherlock go.  


He didn't care that the relationship they had before was gone. They could build a new one. Start over.  


He'd make the effort.  


Sherlock was worth it.

 

~~~

 

“I'm going to Baker Street”  


Mary poked her head out of the living room.  


“Good idea. About time too.” She thought about teasing John, but she realised how far he'd had to go to reach this decision. So she decided against it, giving him a playful nudge and a small peck on the cheek instead.  


“Mary...”  


“I know. Go.”  


He grabbed his coat and opened the front door, before turning back to face his wife.  
“Thanks, Mary.”  


“For what?” she asked, confused.  


“For being so understanding,” he replied quietly, fiddling with the cuff of his freshly ironed shirt.  


“Shhh. Now go and see your detective. Tell him I said hi.” John nodded.  


He left.

 

~~~

  


John stood outside the Baker Street flat, looking up at the familiar windows. The curtains in 221B were closed. It wasn't very surprising really; John had often had to remind Sherlock that actual daylight existed. The detective would have lived his life entirely in artificial light otherwise.  


He bit back a grin as he imagined how Sherlock had been coping without him. For an intensely intelligent man, the detective really was hopeless.  
Steeling himself, he approached the door and rang the bell.  


There was no answer, but he wasn't really expecting one. He rang Mrs Hudson's bell instead.  


A few minutes later, he was being bustled into her tiny kitchen for an obligatory cup of tea.  


“John dear, it's been so long! You couldn't possibly visit without having a nice cup of tea and a chat. How's married life treating you? Keeping you busy? You really ought to call more you know. It would be nice to hear how you're both getting on occasionally.”  


John fought for an opening in Mrs Hudson's continual tirade of questions and admonishments.  


“Yes, great. Everything is fine.”  


“Fine? I'd have thought you'd be more enthusiastic about it, John.”  


“It's just-” He paused. “I don't get to see Sherlock very much any more. I miss going on cases with him. The thrill, the excitement. Mary's great and I love her...but I regret what it's done to Sherlock.”  


Mrs Hudson giggled.  


“Oooh yes. I always thought you two would end up together. Sherlock was so lonely before you came along.”  


“Mmm, it wasn't like that.”  


“I know, dear. But I think it could have been. You were both just too silly to notice.”  


John shrugged.  


“No point in thinking like that. Mary and I are happily married now.” He didn't mention the conversation they'd had earlier. He didn't mention Mary's offer. He wasn't sure if he wanted to accept it yet. Thinking about leaving Mary for Sherlock was one thing. Actually doing it was another.  


He did love her. But he couldn't get Sherlock out of his head. He was torn.  


Mrs Hudson had started babbling on about some gossip she'd heard from the neighbours. He found it impossible to listen to, so he carefully waited for her to pause for breath before making his excuses.  


“Sorry Mrs Hudson, but I've got to be back at the surgery in an hour and I really need to see Sherlock.” He tried to keep his expression blank at the word 'need'. It hadn't come out quite how he meant it to.  


“Of course, of course!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. “Don't let me keep you. Here, hand me your mug, then off you go. Cheer him up though will you, I think he's been a bit down lately.”  


John said his goodbyes, then made his way out of her flat. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up towards the place he had once called home.  


He went to climb up, but his gaze fell on a particular stair. The stair that he and Sherlock had ended up on after his stag night. The night was very hazy after that point. He vaguely remembered a game and something important, something good. He believe that was the closest they had ever come to exploring their feelings.  


If only the client hadn't appeared.  


John let his mind wander, exploring the possibilities.  


What if a hand on the knee had turned into something more?  


A gentle caress.  


A knowing smile.  


A tilting forward, full of expectation and promise.  


A hesitant kiss.  


No. A passionate kiss. He wanted to feel Sherlock's lips on his. He wanted to tangle his hand in the detective's hair. He wanted pull them closer, entwining their limbs until they were one entity. He wanted to hold him close and never let him go.  


He wanted Mary's offer.

The realisation hit him. He wanted Sherlock.

 

He ran up the stairs two at a time, suddenly eager to find the detective, to tell him his decision. There would be a lot of work, but they could do it. Things could go back to how they were before. Better than before. His heart thudded excitedly in his chest.  


He reached the door to the flat and pushed it open.

 

Sherlock was lying stretched out on the sofa, long legs draped over the side. His left arm was curled up, resting on his forehead, covering his face. His right arm was flung out, reaching towards John's chair, resting on the coffee table.

Holding a syringe.

John's heart stopped.

 

His brain took over.

  


He noticed the syringes on the floor.  


He noticed the dust motes swirling in the shadows.  


He noticed the slight smell of vomit.

  


He looked for the rise and fall of the man's chest. But he didn't see it.  


He listened for a heartbeat. But he didn't hear it.  


He felt for a pulse...

  


But he didn't find it.

  


John collapsed to his knees beside the detective. He brushed the hair off the detective's face and looked into his still open eyes. They were unfocussed, empty. 

He pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead. He raised a trembling hand and smoothed the detectives eyes closed.

Fumbling for his phone, he called Mary. Then he called Mycroft. And Lestrade. And Mrs Hudson. And Molly.  
Last of all, he called an ambulance.  


  


With a shaking voice, he gave the address. 

Then he sank down against the sofa and clutched Sherlock's hand. 

He was too late. 

A single tear crept down his cheek. He brushed it away angrily. Army doctors didn't cry. 

But another tear eased its way out. This time he left it. 

He wasn't sure he could do this. Not a second time.  


  


The ambulance arrived. 

Sherlock was lifted onto a stretcher. 

John let the detective's hand slip away. 

He sat in the back of the ambulance. But he didn't look at Sherlock. He couldn't. 

The ambulance drove to St Barts. 

It didn't use the blue lights. It didn't need them. 

  


A faceless doctor examined the prone figure. 

He gave his verdict. 

John's world broke. 

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: drug use, overdose, major character death.


End file.
